


==> Signless, be dead

by Puck_Rock (Lupinshealer)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Sorry Not Sorry, The ancestores and the dancestors meet, The human kids don't exist, They don't like eachother
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 00:09:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3998476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lupinshealer/pseuds/Puck_Rock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you died, you died under a thundering cloud surrounded by the voice of an ignorant mass. You died preaching and furious with everything and everyone. You died, this much you know with as much certainty as you knew you had to change Alternia. You died, but this doesn’t explain why you are awake.</p><p>Over the sweeps that pass in a timeless space, more and more of the trolls die until 12 adults face their alternate selves for unknown reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. THERE IS N9 WAY MY EYES WILL FLUTTER CL9SED T9NIGHT

When you died, you died under a thundering cloud surrounded by the voice of an ignorant mass. You died preaching and furious with everything and everyone. You died, this much you know with as much certainty as you knew you had to change Alternia. You died, but this doesn't explain why you are awake.

You are awake, surrounded by a vast expanse of sand under a blue sky filled with blessed silence. A sand you know because you grew up in it. This sand you left behind when you were dragged to your execution where you DIED! So. Why. Are. You. Awake?

You sit still, amazed by how impossible the sand surrounding you is. Impossible yet oh so loved. Perhaps you shouldn't ask why you’re awake, perhaps a greater plan is in motion, one you can never hope to understand. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps... But who gives a shit about some ineffable plan, you want them back, you want to know why you’re awake.

You snort, a habit that your mother heavily disapproved of but who cares, she’s not here right now since you. Are. Dead! What a mess, but you won’t give up. You never have and you sure as hell aren’t just because you’re awake when you shouldn’t be. Your name is Kankri Vantas and you created a movement of proportions that had never been seen on Alternia.

So you stand up, stubborn to and beyond the end. Mituna always did say that what you lacked in size and rack you made up with sheer pigheadedness. So you walk with practised ease under a scorching sun that doesn’t burn. You walk, because otherwise you would go crazy.

You still do go a little insane you think. You were never much of a fighter, always going on about peaceful resolutions. Rather your primary weapon had always been your words. Right now, alone, you have no one to talk with, no one to listen to, so instead you speak out loud. Streams of words leave your mouth: echoes of what Meulin used to whisper to you by the fire; lullabies sang by your mother when you were still a grub; insults lashed out by Mituna when he realised he was free. You say it all to remember them, honour them, the only way you can.

You walk in this lonely desert, speaking to yourself like a mad troll. You don’t mind though, because you are awake and so there is a chance that you will find them at the end of this sand pit. You will find them and rejoice for you will be together once more.


	2. WITH THE SAND C9VERING MY FEET.

Days, pedigrees, sweeps, millennium pass with no sign of them. Time is twisted in the lonely landscape. No hunger, thirst, exhaustion is felt. The sun never sets and the moons never rise. You had stopped moving for a while, be it hours or sweeps ago, but boredom set in and so you started to walk again.

You walk, still talking with a used up throat and noiseless whisper. You talk and talk and talk. Gog you’re tired of your voice but for some reason, silence is not an option, so you keep moving, hope still burdening your shoulders.

You will find them, you have to.

Suddenly you see the sky mutate, shifting from the endless blue you’ve grown to hate to a distorted colour you can’t begin to understand. This had never happened before, never in the endless time you spent in this lifeless purgatory. You stop walking and you stop talking, studying the sky wondering why this sudden change. You compare it to what your previous lives knew and realise this is a first.

The sky changes in this world where-you-are-awake-but-shouldn’t. Fuck physics, it was always what Mituna favoured anyways, language had always been your forté. You stare at this distortion even as your eyes burn and thinkpan roars in agony but you don’t stop. You are the masochist beyond death, it’s you. Sometimes you’re amazed that the name they gave you wasn’t The Moron rather than the Signless.

But somehow the pain clears a fog that you hadn’t realised was growing in the deepest recesses of your mind. Almost as though you had been dreaming the whole time and are only now waking up. This drastic change in scenery grows and touches the land. It expands and shrivels and enlarges and shrinks. The whole process fascinates you as much as it pains you. You could not drag your hurting eyes away from the spectacle even if you wished to do so.

Then, as suddenly as the world’s mutation began, it stops. It does not grow further and does not shrink back, it is merely gone leaving in front of you a wide expanse of lava and... Are those floating brains?

Apparently this is not purgatory but rather hell. You are not pleased with this surprise and so decide to go back only to find that you are now surrounded on all sides by this new landscape. No, you are definitely not pleased with your current situation but when has the situation ever tried to please you? You sigh in resignation but continue walking, this time in silence. Gog you’re sick of your voice, you want to, need to, hear them.


	3. LAST NIGHT I HAD A VERY FAMILIAR DREAM

You done't walk too long before you see something in the distance that makes your heart leap with joy. A small figure in yellow and black is visible. Finally, FINALLY, you see one of them.

You run, not caring about the brains and the fire all around you, your eyes looking at only one lone shadow, ignoring the rest. You’re not usually so foolish as to not watch your surroundings but you’ll make an exception today, finally a member of your family is here in front of you.

So you run and run until your bloodpusher aches and throat burns with exertion. You run because you’re afraid that if you stop, Mituna will disappear never to be found again. You can’t let that happen, you won’t. So you run faster then you ever ran when you were alive, faster even then when you had the Empress’ hounds chasing you.

And then, you stop. The figure is too small to be Mituna, too young and strangely clothed saying things that you can’t begin to understand. You feel your hope splinter and shatter the longer your gaze is focused on the wriggler. Because that is what the shadow of your friend is, a child. A fucking child. Fuck. Your. Afterlife (or whatever this is)!

You don’t consciously decide to wait for small-Mituna to see you, you just...stay still, looking at him with pain overtaking your every bones, your very marrow. The longer you watch the wriggler the more you realise how different he is from from the Ψiioniic. The clothing is something you’ve never seen and his posture is possibly even worst then when your-Mituna was a slave.

It takes a while for the small yellow blood to notice you but once he has the vast number of profanities that leave his mouth leave you stunned. Wow. Who knew there were this many swear words and insults that could be said in such a short span of time. (This is untrue you know perfectly well how many can be said, after all, insults were your last sermon.)

“Kid, talking to an adult like that could be a very bad idea.”

Not that you intend to hurt not-Mituna but still.

“I’m thorry”

Oh, well, that was unexpected. You are at a loss at what to do now. You’ll start with the basics then.

“You have a name?”

He looks at you, eyes hidden by a blue and red visor but gaze still piercing. He nods enthusiastically, helmet almost dislodged before you hold his head and stop him. You don’t want the boy to hurt himself after all.

“What’s your name?”

The answers he gives you is like a punch in the gut.

“Mituna Chapter. Laptor. Naptor. FUCKY FCUKEY FUCK FUCK FUUUUUCK.”

This, this is Mituna? You go on your knees to put yourself at his eye level. 

“Mituna Captor? Is that your name?”

He nods vigorously with his hands on his helmet almost as if he was trying to get rid of a demon. You take his hands within yours and give them a squeeze hoping that it’ll calm the boy down. 

“Shoosh, little one, shoosh.”

He stops and stares at you for a good long while. His hands begin to shake and he begs for you to let him go. You, of course, do. It had never been your intention to worry the boy, you only wished to calm him down and stop him from hurting himself further.

Little-Mituna doesn’t run once he’s free to move, he only stares at you longer. Clearly he’s waiting for something to happen, for you to attack perhaps? You don’t know and so you wait next to him in silence. Silence, as always, is a powerful ally.


	4. WHERE THE DEAD CAME 6ACK T9 LIFE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, Latula is so hard to write I can't even krhfdhghf. I hate writing her, hate it hate it hate it, omg. Just, omg.

You hear the sound of someone approaching before you actually see anyone. Wriggler-Mituna, that had previously been rolling around on the few patches of solid ground, stops and stares at the incoming person. He smiles, crooked teeth fully visible and arms swinging all over the place. You stay still, cross-legged on your patch of ground with your eyes closed. You think you could be sleeping but as it is, you are awake. Which, to be fair, is the root of all your problems right now. 

You only fully open your eyes when you feel the breath of another troll above you. You tilt your head up and stare back at red rimmed glasses. She’s not very tall this teal clad troll child but she has an air of confidence that people of her caste and higher have always pulled off effortlessly. 

It’s only when you peer deeper into her eyes that your realise they are completely blank. Not blank as in emotionless, but empty with no pupil or iris, they are fathomless depths that keep their secrets. Oh, you realise, you are indeed dead then. Before it had been a possibility, now it was a certainty. Meulin always said that certainty leads to better results when hunting.

“Greetings.”

You say, trying to appear as friendly and harmless as an adult troll is capable which, with your physical appearance, isn’t very hard. You then smile without showing any of your teeth. Again, showing them probably wouldn’t have scared her either, your teeth are as blunt as a spoon, something your Mituna and Meulin went in great lengths to remind you of. Assholes the whole lot of them; you think fondly. 

The troll child smiles back at you, her hips cocked to her side and long hair flipped back over her shoulders. 

“Yo yo Mr. Nubs” She stares at you intently one more time before asking “Wazzup, who’re you, and what do you want with my gameboy?”

“I mean no harm and I have no plans for young Mituna, I assure you. I have no malicious intentions.”

Hmmm, perhaps you should take off the hood, your mother had often told you it added a layer of mystery that may not be welcome at the moment. You move your hand to remove the hood but before you finish this action, the young girl troll jumps in the air and lands on a strange wooden plank with wheels.

“Rad! Name’s Latula Pyrope and here’s my matesprit Mituna Captor...” 

If your heart was beating, it would have stopped. You know this young troll girl just like you know this version of Mituna Captor, they both frequently featured in the dreams you had back when you were alive and much much younger. 

While you were having this realisation, Latula had finished introducing herself and had asked you a question. You don’t know what the question was. Gogdamn you and your need to talk (think) to yourself.

“My apologies, I did not quite catch the question you just asked.”

“ You looked totally nussed just then, you OK bro?” 

“I’m perfectly fine, merely remembered something.”

You give her a smile to show how alright you are. Yeah tip top shape... It’s sad when you can’t even lie convincingly to yourself.

“Rad! Give me five!”

You stare at her blankly not understanding what she wants. Once several awkward seconds pass she puts down her hand and speaks once again.

“So I was wondering, you played the game too? Is that why you’re in Tunafish’s dream bubble?”

“Game? Dream bubble?”

What on Alternia is the girl talking about.

“Yeah, Sburb, the game that’s so on the hook it made posers look cool. It created the universe and stuff. Not ringin’ any bells?”

Perhaps she’s insane. Or maybe you’ve gone insane and are now hallucinating mad wrigglers. It worries you that the latter seems more likely. 

“No, I have no idea what you’re on about.”

“Huh, then how’d you get here?”

You got tortured for days on end with burning manacles for the pleasure of two twisted trolls before Darkleer shot an arrow in your gut to prove to the troll population at large how easy you were to kill.

“I had a small accident.”

Latula does not seem to be impressed with your response but she doesn’t press for a better answer and instead extends her hand out to pull you to your feet all the while babbling incomprehensibly about ‘radness’ and ‘tightness’. You had forgotten how friendly trolls from Beforeus were, it actually worries you, but instead of showing how utterly disorientated you are, you take her hand and give her a soft smile.

“Many thanks.”

She shrugs your thanks away and then calls to young-Mituna before turning back to you.

“You coming with? Been a while since any of us bust a J-town session with another troll.”

What on Alternia is she saying?

“Are you sure you want to trust me so easily?”

This is so strange for you, the welcoming attitude and friendly behaviour. It almost seems unnatural which is strange considering you’ve been promoting peace, harmony and equality. 

“Shouldn’t I? Mituna says you’re rad and you don’t seem all that gnarly so I don’t see why I wouldn’t. S’all good bro, s’all good.”

Wow, you are amazed by her naivety and innocence. Amazed, enchanted and, to be honest, disgusted. How the hell had she been alive long enough to reach her eighth wriggling day.

But you nod before telling her that you’ll be following along, you’ve been alone long enough.

“You got a title? You have the look of a troll with a title.”

“Unofficially I was called the Signless.”

You were disappointed when you realised that you were going to be remembered by such an uninspiring title, all those around you had admirable ones like the Ψiioniic or the Disciple. Compared to that yours was dull, not that you admitted it to your family or you would have been mocked relentlessly for sweeps.

“How ‘bout officially?”

“I didn’t really have a name unless you consider ‘Cull the Mutant’ to be one.”

“Culling’s not that bad, yo.”

You stop in dismay, looking at her in revulsion.

“You consider it a good thing?”

Latula whirls her wooden board thing around (what is it?), looking worried at your reaction. Not-your-Mituna, who was being pulled along by his matesprit falls down face first. She doesn’t seem worried, a frequent thing then.

“Well kinda? It makes sure that all those that need to be cared for are by higherbloods” then comprehension dawns on her face “unless someone that doesn’t need it is being culled and then its mega lame. You look like someone that can take care of himself, even if you’re a mutant. So maybe culling ain’t that rad but it ain’t that bad either”

“You think culling means to take care of someone?”

Latula looks at you as though you were stupid.

“Well, yeah. I was meant to be culled which was so sketchy, I mean, I don’t exactly need to smell stuff to function, you get? But I know what was meant to happen and why they wanted to stuff it on my radness.”

“I think we lived very different meanings of the word culling.”

Life on Beforeus truly was gentle when compared to Alternia. It was the basis for your ideal but by the time your movement gathered momentum you only had a very hazy memory of what life was like. You only had your dreams up until you were 6 sweeps old, the last thing you clearly remember was a seadweller called Meenah holding a game disk and a predatory smile gracing her lips.

“What do you think culling means?”

“To kill someone in the most painful and humiliating way possible as they are of no use for the Empire” you answer promptly.

Latula looks at you in surprise.

“A place called Alternia, where unjust systems, racism and bigotry were ripe.”

“Who are you?”

You take off the hood that was still covering your face in shadows and tell her:

“My name is Kankri Vantas, and you probably know a version of me from another universe.”


	5. AND THE Y9UNG TALKED 6UT NEVER SP9KE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, we have the first interaction with the Kankris. It's going to be amazing ;D.

The younger, alternate version of you is annoying. The most annoying, rude, insulting, stuck up know it all that you have had the displeasure of meeting. Right now you are holding yourself back from taking out your scythe and slitting the foolish boy’s throat. You are this close to doing it. It wouldn’t even be considered murder, more along the lines of suicide.

You platonically hate him as much as you platonically hated the Empress. The fact that you loath yourself to this extent says something about your psych but you really don’t give a shit, you merely want to cull him.

Several of the young trolls are smirking at your misery glad to finally be able to make a Kankri have to suffer through a lecture by Kankri. You loath them as well.

“...and since you are wearing a cloak that does not reveal either your blood colour or your symbol, it makes me, who is an alternate version of you, feel very triggered. Do you have any ideas how insulted I feel by the fact that you are unwilling to embrace exactly who you are, blood colour and all. After all, if I see you behaving in such a manner, it can make me believe as though I should behave that way as well. You should be willing to accept every facet of your personality as long as none would trigger anyone else. I find it especially disturbing that you are unwilling to EEK!”

You interrupt the stupid child by taking his lips between your fingers and glaring at him. It’s a shame that you have no irises, you had frequently been told by some of your followers that when you glared it was as if the fire of damnation were condemning them. You’d been very proud of your eyes, the eyes that resulted from a mutation that called for your death but allowed you to see how unjust your world was, is.

“Shut.Up!” you command very slowly. The boy stops fidgeting and is instead looking at you in fear. Good. The young-not-your-mother tries to go towards your annoying self but is stopped by a grinning not-the-empress.

This is by far the strangest situation you have ever found yourself in.

“Do you ever stop talking? No don’t answer that, I think I know the answer anyway. Let me give you a tip you shitsponge, the words coming out of your flapping hole sound like phelgm vomit to my ears. You constantly talk but never speak and I’m getting tired of having to hear the same repetitive shit over and over and over again. Get it in your half assed empty think pan and realise that no one. Gives! A! Single! Shit! Hived! Maggot! Fuck about triggers and other fucking useless crotch blistering trash that comes out of your seedflap!”

As soon as you finish your tirade, breathless, you regret your words. Annoying as the child is he is not who you are actually aiming your anger and disdain at. As much as you like to think that you have forgiven those that betrayed you and laughed as you were roasted alive, you are annoyingly self-aware. You know you still loath them with a grimness that frightens you.

Yet it’s not the feelings you hold towards the traitors that made you spit out the rant. No, that honour belongs solely to you. You had honestly thought that your words would be enough to change your world, you were arrogant enough to think that you, pathetic little mutant shit blood, would change the mind of trolls. Trolls that you had always known were stubborn and set in their inexcusable traditions. Your hubris has led to the imprisonment of the best trolls you knew, quite possibly the greatest trolls in existence. You cannot forgive yourself for the greatest failure the universes have ever seen. You cannot forgive yourself for having led the demise of your family. You cannot forgive and so you aim your anger at a boy that is only guilty of being your biological twin. A boy that does his best in a universe the ended so long ago. A boy that, if put in your shoes when a grub, would have chosen the same path as you. A boy that you can’t forgive because you see yourself in what he says, because you know his choices are the same as yours, because he is you from his grey scarless skin to his mutant candy red blood.

You have always disliked mirrors and now you are forced to talk to a reflection that shows you exactly where your weaknesses lie.

So you let the boy go and he falls to the ground glaring at you with anger and a bright lustless hate. You stare back at him with your own fury visibly seeping from you tense shoulders. You turn around and walk, barely stopping yourself from running away in shame as you see the shocked faces of his friends (are they? He seems more isolated than you ever were even when branded a traitor), the righteous fury in the eyes of the Mayram-that-is-not-your-mother, the glee in those that actively disliked him. The young Peixes raises her palm towards you as though expecting you to react to the meaningless action. You ignore her and walk away from the crowd of ignorant children.


	6. A M9THER’S T9UCH WILL HEAL ALL W9UNDS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honest note time, I don't think that I was able to make Porrim's tone accurate so I left it at not using any apostrophes, hehehe. Actually I pretty much suck at all the younger alternate versions, but I hope that you all consider the tones of the adults to be good enough.

She’s the one that finds you. You used every trick that Meulin taught you to hide from hunters yet she still finds you, as though immune to the precautions you took. Although she is not the troll who you have known since grubhood she is still fundamentally the same as your mother. She is the Dolorosa as much as you are the poor child you aimed your anger at.

“Why did you do that?” she asks, no, demands. Her voice is younger, less tired and far more sultry than your mother’s had been yet it is inexplicably the same. Same tone, softness and gravitas. She may cover her skin with ink and piercings, her clothing may reveal more than hide but her face and smell are unmistakable. 

You don’t shift from the position you’re in, chin still on your bent knees.

“Hey! I am talking to you!”

“I know.”

You should have expected that she would come find you in defence of the younger you but you weren’t ready to think of facing the familiar yet oh so different anger of Porrim Mayram. Once, when you were a grub, you’d broken your mother’s favourite sewing kit. Sometimes you still feel the ringing in your ears for the tongue lashing you received. You know you’re about to face something frighteningly similar.

“Why did you do that?”

You sigh, exhausted by having to continually force yourself not to flip the fuck out when surrounded by trolls-you-know-but-not.

“He reminded me of someone I hate.”

Platonically of course.

“That is not an excuse. I know he can be insufferable but nonetheless he does not deserve to be treated like that! Now go apologise!”

“I will, once my rage and pride abate.”

She looks at you, understanding something that has most likely escaped your grasp, and asks softly:

"Who?"

You give her the most tender of smiles unable to help yourself, this is the young version of the woman you hold in the highest esteem. You don’t answer but you don’t think she needs you to, Mayram’s are frighteningly perspective. Porrim then sits next to you to study your face and the unmistakeable resemblance between you and other-Kankri. She looks conflicted, as conflicted as you feel whenever you look at the younger versions of the people you either cared for or despised.

“Do you know me?”

She whispers gently, reminding you of the time your mother would sing you to sleep. So instead of answering her you laugh and laugh and laugh. You laugh a tinge hysterically, almost as though you were overtaken by the Mirthful Messiahs. 

Once the hysterics leave you, you answer her whilst wiping away the tears from you blank, sleepless eyes.

“Yes, I know you very well. Perhaps better than any troll.”

Her curiosity clearly knows no bounds and her bravery borders on stupidity (but you’d always known that) as she then goes on to ask you another question even after having been present to your less than sane moment.

“Am I, is she, your moirail?”

You almost burst out laughing again at the suggestion but this time you hold yourself back.

“No, our relationship has never been and will never be romantic. The mere idea of it becoming such is...disturbing.”

Her face, strangely expressive compared to the constant serenity you grew up knowing, scrunches up in confusion by your answer.

“Did you not get along?” 

You realise for the first time that Beforeus and Alternia were frighteningly similar in how trolls viewed relationships. Although young-Porrim’s home was more accepting of the concept of friendship, any other relationship that did not fit within the strict guidelines that their society accepted was to be rebuffed. It figures that even on Beforeus you would have been an abomination due to the bond you shared with your mother.

“She was the person that always understood me best and I like to think I was the same to her.”

“I am confused. How can you have such a deep understanding of one another and not be moirails?”

“Not every relationship is romantic in nature, some follow a different path, one that is less travelled but more powerful because of it.”

Your answer does not seem to satisfy her in any way but you hadn’t expected it to.

“Then what was she to you?”

Your lack of clear cut quadrant relationship with your mother visibly frustrates her but before you can answer exactly who Porrim Mayram was to you, the sky mutates once more.

Over the aeons or days that you lived (died?) through after having met the ‘raddezt gurl to ever live’ you’ve gotten used to locations that shifted depending on the children’s memories. Somehow the first change in environment that you’d lived through had been far more unique and frightening in appearance. When looking at Porrim’s face you can work out worry, clearly she’s never seen anything similar. Shit like that only happens to you.

“What in the...”

She begins to say but before she finishes her exclamation the mutation disappears as quickly as it appeared leaving behind a single person where before had been empty grassland.

You stand up.

You hear a shout in the wind, 

“Kankri? Kankri!”

It is an exclamation of pure hopeful joy and when you recognise the voice you stumble on the spot. None of the children call you Kankri, they either respect, fear or wish to differentiate you from their annoying team mate and so constantly call you Signless. Your followers had also seemed to wish to express their respect by calling you by your unofficial title. The only ones that called you Kankri have always been your family.

“Mother?”

You can’t believe it, is it really her? Or is this another way that fate decides to toy with you.

“Kankri!”

No, no this time it’s her, the only troll that you know able to mix tenderness with despair over your stupidity.

“Mother!”

You begin to run leaving behind the young-Porrim in the dust. You don’t stop, you run jumping over rocks and bushes, you run and run and run past the point of exhaustion and reaching pure exhilaration.

“Mother!”

You’re close enough to see a familiar jade and black dress that elegantly defines every curve of her body. Close enough to see a short practical haircut that made her graceful horns stand out more. Close enough to see a face that always reassured you and filled you with undeserved confidence.

Once you are a couple of feet away from her you slow down from your sprint, to walk towards the open arms of your mother where she then encloses you in a cocoon of what smells like home.

“My little grub, my sweet little foundling. Oh I thought I would never see you again.”

Words expressing how you’ve missed her stumble out of your mouth in a stuttering mess while her soothing voice comforts you, her delicately strong hands caressing your hair and her arm keep you crushed against her side as though she worries that you’ll disappear from her sight once more.

“Let me see you my child, prove to me that I am not dreaming.”

She takes your head in your hands and tilts it up. Although the familiar jade green eyes that you adored as wriggler are missing she is unmistakably your mother, the person you owe everything to.

“I’m sorry.”

Her face scrunches in confusion, eerily similar to the expression that the younger girl had shown you mere moments ago but already seem to be a dream.

“Whatever for, grubling?”

“For having failed, for having forced you to follow my ideals that I should have known no one would take seriously, for having led you to your death, for...”

She hugs you once again, this time a gentle squeeze.

“My sweet wriggler, you have nothing to apologise for. I have always been terribly proud of what you have accomplished and what you wished to do. Whether or not you had been my son I would have followed you willingly. You were right and I am honoured to have been known as the follower of the Signless.”

You close your eyes relieved to hear that she doesn’t blame you for everything that went wrong in her life. Relieved but not reassured, you merely stay in the embrace glad to have one of your precious people back.


	7. A 6R9THER’S FIST WILL MAKE 9NE 6LEED.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... Sorry about the looooooong break between updates but hey, Summer Holidays guys. That's my excuse.

Time passes quickly after you were reunited with your mother. The surprise that the younger children showed when they realised who your mother is was priceless, especially considering the reputation that the younger Mayram has within this social circle. The shock that they still clearly feel when they understood that Porrim was your lusii is glorious. You’ve always enjoyed seeing surprise in the faces of people who expect little from you (when you had spat in the Grand Highblood’s face is an example that comes to mind. Still, perhaps not the smartest thing to do, it’s likely that the torture lasted longer because of it.)

You never ask her how she died or what her life was like once she was in the hands of the empire. If she wished for you to know she would have spoken and although you have your suspicions of what occurred you do not wish to see the broken-hearted expression you’ve caught glimpses of. So instead you stay silent and will her to find inner peace.

You think she does this by taking the role of caretaker, something that young-Porrim resents, either due to her believing mother is fitting too comfortably in the role she deems Jade bloods should fight against or, and this is far more likely, she resents the intrusion on the role she previously held.

Your mother can soothe the more excited episodes of not-Mituna; kindly interrupt the flirtatious attempts of the foolish sea-dweller she always looks at fondly; allow Latula to speak without the hindrance of her façade; open up the close mouthed rust-blood; be gentle with the overexcited )(eiress; give advice on relationships to Horuss and does not fall under the charm of the winged child.

There are some wrigglers your mother seems at loss with what to do. To young Aranea she is kind but there seems to be a certain stiffness, almost as though she’s constantly fighting against violent impulses. With your killer’s clone she remains frigid but polite, clearly unwilling to accept that this is not the troll that made you bleed and laughed. Her relationship with young-Porrim is difficult, the other is openly hostile in passive aggressive way Mayram’s have made an art form of, they seem unwilling to talk, both proud and rigid in their stance towards their duty. Their views oppose one another and this is only made more difficult by the fact that they are each other.

With Meulin... You try not to look at her or the relationship your mother has developed with the child. Your Disciple’s absence is the one you feel the most keenly. She was your lover, confidante, friend, teacher, student, partner. She was everything to you and to see every day this cheap imitation hurts. Instead you avoid her, something that is not difficult considering she never leaves the side of Kurloz (her former matesprit, your killer, but she pities him and it hurts hurts hurts because what you had went so far beyond pity it transcended the quadrants and became something purer. She was too strong for pity and she found you too brave. Yet here and now, this little one seems to be the antithesis to everything your-Meulin held with pride. Strength and Furocity) who seems unwilling to socialise. You think that your mother might understand this and so distances herself from the girl when she sees you approach.

With Kankri the relationship is strangely stilted, she talks to him like she used to talk to you and then realises he isn’t you by a comment he makes. Although she’s able to easily silence any sermons that young-Kankri begins without insulting him, a gift you envy but are aware she has due to having raised you, the following quiet is always awkward.

Other times, instead of silence you see her studying Kankri in a thoughtful manner comparing everything she knows of you with how he acts. As different as you are from the boy you are also inescapably the same, she sees this and wonders.

“Kankri dear.”

You shift to look at her, curious.

“Yes?”

“Do you pity him?”

“Who?”

You’re already aware of who she’s talking about but you’re hoping that for once to be mistaken.

“You know who I talk of.”

You do and you hate yourself for it.

“No and I don’t think I ever will.”

Her gaze remains soft.

“You always were too hard on yourself.”

“He isn’t me.”

“You know that is not quite true.”

She takes the following silence with grace and elegantly sits next to you, shoulders brushing.

“I have realised something.”

“Oh?”

“You are not one to stand idle. You must lead the charge of change or watch yourself fade away.”

You lay your head on her rumplesphere and let her stroke your hair in the same manner she used to a long time ago when the world had been limited to the cave that you both inhabited.

“Do you think that’s all there is to him? An unfulfilled revolutionary?”

“No, I think he lived in a world where he never had to fight to survive, a world where he was never heard when he spoke and so now he only talks. A boy that was often overlooked and so now will do anything to be paid attention to.” 

“So he’s an attention whore.”

She slaps your head at the vulgarity of the sentence.

“He is a lonely child that demands the same treatment from his fellows. In a world where those who should be culled are cared for, it must be very difficult to become independent when a mutant, a pitiful aberration in the eyes of all.”

You don’t answer, simply close your eyes and dream of sleep.


	8. A N9BLE DEATH IS 6UT A WORD THAT SPEAKS

The moment you realise that the Alternians who will join your merry band of the now-deceased-but-still-awake are the mirror images of the dead children you have come to know very well (too well, far far too well), is when pieces of Cronus Ampora appear seemingly in the process of repairing themselves.

Your mother is the first to react when this occurs. She rushes to his mutilated corpse, rests what is left of his head on her thighs and slowly brushes his forehead in a gentle caress. 

“Hello dear” She says, all fondness and heartbreak, “it is good of you to join us.” 

The only answer the violet blood can give is a soft moan of pain as his body continues to fix itself. 

While your mother begins the delicate process of aiding this troll you don’t know, the children create a semi circle of utter repulsion and deep fascination.

“Did you all look like that when you first came?” 

You don’t actually remember anything of your arrival in this sleepless world but the anger felt for being awake rather than having reached the blessed darkness you had sought since landing in the hands of the Grand Highblood. 

“Possibly.” 

That is all you say in reply to the question. You would rather not consider how bad you looked when you first came (battered and beaten and bleeding and broken). 

Instead of concentrating on the little ones, you shift to crouch next to your mother, more serene and glad than you have seen since your group began to be known. 

“Who is he?” 

You whisper to her, wondering who this troll was, or perhaps still is, to your mother. 

“My master, officially.” 

“Unofficially?” 

“He was a fool that could not even dress himself much less command someone whom he was fond of.” 

“You care for him.” 

“Very much, he was the one that released me.” 

“From slavery?” 

“From life.” 

The gentle smile she gives you doesn’t fit what she just murmured to you but rather than reacting, you ask her if she was his lover. 

“We were moirails. He was self-entitled and spoilt, proud and pathetic, hateful but pitiful. He needed looking after and I was willing to embrace the role.” 

“You missed him.” 

“As much as I missed a piece of my heart.” 

Quickly the pained form of Cronus Ampora was healing. His head, previously looking concave, healed with his royal blood being absorbed back into his veins and pumped around by his still blood pusher. Bones regrew on his limbless stumps and blood, flesh, muscle and skin covered it all. Gaudy clothes that even dying, this troll somehow seems to pull off, weaved and fluttered until they were whole. 

It took several minutes for the prone form of the sea-dweller to appear as though he was merely unconscious rather than dead. Minutes that your mother spent soothing and singing with joy bright in her lifeless eyes. 

“Perhaps I should not be so glad to have him dead.” 

You smile a little when you hear her say that 

“Mother, of all trolls, you are the most deserving to feel selfishness.” 

She extends a hand at you and smiles when you take it into yours. This is when the troll moans, long and pained, before opening blank eyes to the world at large. 

“P-P-P-Porrim? Vwhat is goin’ on? Wvhat, hovw are you aliwve? Vwhat?” 

“Shoosh, you fool, rest. Everything is well.” 

You find it difficult to be impressed by a sea dweller who stutters and is the replica of the wriggler that can’t flirt to save his (now deceased) life. 

The sea dweller begins to move and tries to stand, but his legs give way like a new-born calf and falls to his knees. Meenah laughs her grating laugh.This is when the situation begins to follow the trend that your life has always had. That is, things go to shit. You are a deep believer in the saying of ‘things can always get worse’. 

Before a word of calm can be pronounced, a blue rifle is taken out from gog-knows-where and is already pointed at the tyrian blooded troll. Meenah, in an instinct of survival, pulls in front of her the nearest troll to act as a meat shield. Unfortunately this individual was Mituna which led to her incurring the wrath of his matesprit. Latula goes on to attack her with her skateboard (why?) while Mituna flails around. In the meantime, in hope of stopping blood shed and the possible demise of the )(eiress, Horuss tries to act but bumps into his matesprit’s ex-matesprit who decides now is the right time to attack the blue-blood in a fit of jealous rage. Rufioh, who clearly wishes to be elsewhere, forces himself to try and stop the rather one sided massacre happening in his name. For some reason, Meulin steps in and bars him from access signing excitedly about something, quite possibly in the name of shipping. When Rufioh pushes her aside, Kurloz comes in defence of his former matesprit which leads to more chaos developing. Seemingly out of nowhere, Cronus decides to join in and aims to hit Kurloz but misses and instead hits Kankri right in the nose. As the younger you falls down on his arse, Porrim lands upon the sea dweller in righteous fury. Aranea tries to get everyone to stop fighting but is instead forced to fight with an overexcited Meulin that doesn’t leave her the time to concentrate on her mind control. 

In short, chaos. 

While the children were busy re-enacting troll Lord of the Flies, the adults were busy gaping at the brawl, disbelieving that a mere laugh could have resulted in this mess. 

“Vwhat? Porrim? Wvas that Meenah? I don’ understand, Vwhat happened?” 

While your mother explains where and what and who and why, you march to the melée, and with your limited patience, plan how to stop this mess.


End file.
